


Accidental Compatibility

by DutchXfan



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-10
Updated: 2005-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DutchXfan/pseuds/DutchXfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The worst that can happen is waking up with a hangover and food poisoning. We’re suicidal anyway. Let’s live life to the edge."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little story about Logan and Marie meeting under somewhat unusual circumstances. They’re both lonely, both desperate, and both willing to give up. It isn' t really going anywhere. I just wanted to write a somewhat little fic about two damaged people finding each other at the lowest point of their lives and sharing a moment of mutual understanding. I guess this is what I ended up with. I know there is lots of room for a sequel, but I like it the way it is. It was originally written for a Christmas Countdown over at WRFA. (Beta by angelsnow and Anna.)

The roaring sound of an engine disturbs the stilled hum of the night. A lonely biker races the machine. Too fast. Too loud. He isn’t wearing a helmet. No gloves. No protection. Dressed in jeans and a beaten-up leather jacket, strangers he passes by think he’s risking his life by speeding like a madman and ignoring all the safety rules. He couldn’t care less. 

Two days until Christmas. 

He doesn’t care for holidays either. They come and they go, unnoticed by him most of the time. Only because some waitress had asked him if he was going home to celebrate the birth of Jesus with his family did he realize he managed to fuck up another year. 

Home and family. 

Both words are foreign to him. 

So he races over the asphalt, ignoring the speed, ignoring the biting cold, and maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can even ignore his pathetic existence. 

Bloodstained hazel eyes are scanning the road ahead. Just a few miles before the sharp U-turn to the left. He knows he’ll never make it with this speed. 

He thinks about not even trying.

* * *

A lonesome figure in a dark cloak watches the depth of the cliff. She shivers, but it’s because of the cold outside. 

Two days before Christmas, and this time she refuses the struggle to get through those days all by herself. She doesn’t have the energy to fight her inner demons anymore. It’s been enough. 

She bends over to look at the gaping abyss while standing on a small ledge behind the crash barrier. If she jumps with the right angle, she’ll avoid the trees and hit the rocks. 

Taking a deep breath, she looks over the peaceful landscape one more time to say goodbye to the world as she knows it. In the distance she hears the roaring sound of a motorcycle, and a voice in her head is accusing her of taking the easy way out. Faintly smiling, she’s justifies her decision. It might be easy, she might be a coward, but it’s also an effective method to gain the peace she longs for. She knows she’ll be gone the moment the motorcycle will pass by. She’ll finally be surrounded by blissful quietness. The voices will be gone. 

Bracing herself for the jump, she pushes back all thoughts and disturbances of the night. The bike is coming closer. She has to hurry. It’s almost here.

Just when she’s about to take the leap, she suddenly hears a scream above the sound of the thunderous engine. Startled, she looks up and loses her balance. 

No! This isn’t the way she’d planned her jump!

Her view seems to shift to a strange slow-motion blur. She watches the bike coming her way. She knows she won’t be able to reach out for the barrier to avoid tumbling over the edge, so she closes her eyes, holds her breath, and hopes she’ll miss the tree-line. She hears the bike crashing into the barrier and causing an explosion. She feels the glowing heat through her clothes, and when she looks up, she witnesses a sudden burst of red, orange and golden flames lightning up the sky. 

Strangely calm, her eyes follow the parts of metal flying into the darkness. She feels herself floating along with them. All sounds seem muffled, and she wonders for a split-second if she’s in some sort of a twilight zone. She snaps out of the pensively trance quite abruptly. A strong, bloody hand grabs her arm. Suddenly she’s dangling in the cold air, gasping. 

“What’re you thinking? You’ll die!” a deep and husky voice barks at her, and she looks up to meet a furious looking man, his leather jacket completely in shreds. On a different occasion she would’ve thought of it as satirical, but now, she’s squirming out of his tight grip. 

“That’s the plan!” she yells back, surprised her voice still works. “Lemme go!”

The man looks a bit taken aback by her shouted command, but she doesn’t really care. When she starts to hyperventilate as a result of the shock, the absurdity of the situation finally sinks in. 

Life is playing tricks on her. She can’t even kill herself properly. Here she is, hanging above a cliff, the choice of life and death now depending on some gruff-looking, probably wounded biker. Ironically, death suddenly doesn’t seem all that appealing anymore. 

The biker seems to agree with her even though she hasn’t said it out loud. He’s trying to pull her up. 

When she’s thinking of a prayer to thank God, she can’t help but wonder if this is His way to tell her she isn’t welcome in Heaven. Maybe she simply deserves to live in this hell. Maybe this is her punishment. 

The voices in her head all seem to agree.

* * *

The man looks down on the girl whose arm he’s clasped in his tight grip. She doesn’t look scared, even though her life is literary in his hands. Is she stupid? Or on drugs? If she falls she won’t make it. What was she thinking standing on the ledge like that? Was she really serious about jumping? She’s just a kid. Boyfriend trouble isn’t worth ending a life for. 

“Hold on, kid. I won’t let go,” he says, looking around for something to hold on to, but her movements are erratic and she continues squirming. 

“Careful!” she shrieks almost breathlessly as his hand slips a little. “My skin!”

He doesn’t really understand her now frightened words, and he doesn’t understand why she isn’t trying to grab his hand. All she has to do is reach out, but she’s still wriggling unsteadily in the air, entirely depending on him.

The fabric of her green cloak is smooth and his hand is covered in greasy blood. No matter how tight his grip is, he feels her slipping away until he holds on to her bare wrist only. The moment her skin comes in contact with his, a tingling sensation overwhelms him and he hears her chocked up cry. As his energy leaves him, his last thoughts are a mixture of guilt and regret because he wasn’t able to keep his promise. She slips away from him.

She falls.

* * *

The young woman stares at the man who saved her life fighting unconsciousness. The way his steady breathing has changed into restless panting tells her it’s time to create a little distance between them. She knows he won’t be pleased to find out where he is, but she couldn’t leave him lying on the side of the road just like that. She owes him a ‘thank you’ and an apology at least. 

“Hey,” she says, trying not to startle him. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

He stiffens at first, but in a blink of an eye he suddenly bolts to his feet and backs up against the wall, a metallic ‘snikt’ revealing three long claws from his fists. 

Just like she’s been expecting.

“Where am I?” he almost growls, his eyes agitatedly darting through the room, looking for an exit and measuring her up to see what kind of a threat she is. 

“My place,” she answers with a reassuring smile, concentrating to keep up her non-threatening attitude. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

In any other context it would’ve been downright ridiculous to say that to a man. Especially a man who looks so fierce and strong as he does, but she knows she has to calm him down. In fact, she knows pretty much everything about him. She knows what’s going on in his head right now, when his skilled and observant hazel eyes are giving her a once over. It sends an unconscious shiver down her spine. 

“You fell,” he says, and despite his intimidating stance and tone, she chuckles. 

“Yes, but you gave me your healing. Heightened senses, too. Pretty nifty powers, mister.”

Any other wouldn’t have caught the slight puzzlement on the man’s dark, handsome features, but she can read his emotions quite easily. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, an apologizing smile accompanying her soothing words. “I’m a mutant, just like you. I get the power of those who touch me skin to skin. And their memories. I sorta know all about you, so maybe I should introduce myself. You know, to be somewhat even.”

She carefully takes two steps closer, like she’s walking up to some dangerous animal, and slowly reaches out a gloved hand. 

“I’m Marie. I know your name is Logan. It’s nice to meet you.” Then she adds a little sheepishly, shrugging one shoulder, “And uh… thanks for saving my life.”

* * *

Logan glares suspiciously at the girl’s out stretched gloved hand and tries to comprehend the information she just gave him. Is he dreaming? Hallucinating? Maybe *he* fell off that cliff and now he’s in some sort of coma? He feels his claws retreating, and when he looks down on them, he sees what he’s wearing. Are those *pink* sweat pants?

Her quiet giggle makes him look up again, just in time to see she’s trying to conceal her smile by biting her lower lip. 

“I’d say pink is your color,” she says, trying to maintain a straight face but not succeeding very well. 

She doesn’t seem insulted about the fact he didn’t shake her hand. What the hell is going on here? Is she making fun of him? 

“Where are my clothes?” he demands to know, still not sure what to make of all this, but the girl - what’s her name again? Marie? She doesn’t seem impressed by him at all.

“In the dryer. What’s left of them, anyway. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

With that, she turns around and leaves him still pressed against the far wall, trying to figure out the logic of this mess. It’s not the first time he'd woken up not knowing where he was, but he’s pretty damn sure he never woke up wearing pink sweats while some cheeky girl is making fun of him. 

He tugs at the fabric and realizes the pants must be her hers. They’re probably her baggiest, but on him they are rather… tight. He uncomfortably shifts his weight from one foot to another and checks her room one more time before she returns, her arms full of fresh smelling laundry. 

“Here you go,” she says cheerfully, dropping the pile of clothes on the bed. “Bathroom’s the first on your right,” she points out. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything. You hungry?”

Actually, yeah. He is. His healing must’ve been in overdrive. He feels rather worn out. What did she do to him? One moment he’s trying to haul her back on the ledge, the next he wakes up in her bedroom. This isn’t making any sense. 

“What happened?” he asks, still a little edgy, picking up his shirt and hastily throwing it over his head. 

It takes her a while to answer. “I’ll tell you what, you get dressed, and I’ll make some scrambled eggs. When you’re done, you can join me in the kitchen so I can explain everything. How’s that?”

Somewhat more at ease and buttoning up his flannel, he gives her the benefit of the doubt. She doesn’t seem hostile, plus he feels more or less starved. If this turns out bad, he’d rather fight his way out with a full stomach. “Fair enough.”

* * *

Marie’s humming a soft tune while she waits for Logan to show up. Their second meeting went rather well, considering his background and his temper. She congratulates herself for remaining calm. 

“Hey.” The man in question walks into her kitchen and she has to admit she finds him attractive in a strange, primitive kind of way. 

“How are you feeling?” she asks, keeping an eye on the frying pan to hide her blush. 

“Hungry,” is his immediate answer, and when she glances up, she meets guarded eyes. 

Of course. He doesn’t know her. She keeps forgetting that. It’s bizarre to know so much about another person in just a matter of seconds. The part she took from him blended perfectly well with her own personality already. He’s quite compatible, unlike the others in her head, and he’s actually still alive. No one else survived a touch that long. She was so scared when he touched her skin. She doesn’t think she can take another--

“You okay?”

His unexpected, almost hesitant question surprises her, and she forces her depressing thoughts in the back of her mind. Smiling, she shoves a well-filled plate over the counter separating them. “Yeah. Here, you eat and I’ll talk.”

Sitting down on one of the stools, he stays quiet and pulls the plate a little closer. 

“Okay,” she starts, toweling off her hands, “so what do you remember last?”

“You fell.”

“Right.” 

Walking up to the refrigerator and pouring him a glass of milk, she tries to buy time. What to tell? She doesn’t want to scare him with the horror-story of her skin. It’s nice to have some company again, but she knows she can’t get away with lies. He’ll smell it on her instantly. 

“I’m a mutant, just like you,” she explains him again. “When someone touches my skin, I absorb their life force and memories. In case of mutants, I get their powers for a short while as well.”

Unless she kills them, she adds silently, but again, Logan breaks her depressing thoughts by asking, “Life force? That’s the reason I went out cold?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I tried to warn you, but--”

“--I was too busy trying to save your ass. What the hell were you thinking anyway?”

Knowing the question would pop up some time, she sighs. “Same as you before you saw me.”

His head perks up and he regards her with a fierce, penetrating glower. She can almost read his mind and knows he doesn’t want to go there. His body might look in his prime, but his mind is tired. Just like her, he just wanted it all to end. His life, this world, or even the universe. He couldn’t summon the strength to face another day. She knows he’d never confide those thoughts to her though. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t talk about his feelings. Or any feeling for that matter. 

Much to her relief he changes the subject. “You said you got memories too. You got mine?”

“Basically I know everything you remember, but I don’t have access to your mind that easily. It’s not like I can sort through it like I search for socks in a messed up drawer.”

He keeps staring at her, a little warily this time, his eggs totally forgotten. Aware of the fact this all must sound very strange, she tries to think of a better way to describe what it feels like in her head. 

“Suppose you’ve seen a movie where a character passes a pink wall several times. Then, one day, you walk past that pink wall yourself and you recognize it. But it’s actually a fake memory because you’ve never been there before. That’s what it’s like. Well, sort of.”

Staring at the counter, he seems to mull it over. 

She doesn’t know if this explanation makes sense at all. It’s hard to put those feelings into words. There are all sorts of situations and scents that can trigger memories, and she always has to figure out whether they are her own or someone else’s. She still isn’t used to the fact she remembers building a snowman in her backyard while she’s never seen snow in her entire life. Not to mention she has memories of being pregnant and giving birth to a baby girl. In real life she’s never even had sex. 

Thanks to this man sitting across from her, she now also knows what it’s like to have liquid metal poured into her body, and what it’s like to have claws cutting thought her hands. She knows what it’s like to kill and to be killed in so many ways she’s lost count. 

“That sucks,” he suddenly breaks her thoughts, and showing him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, she agrees. 

“Amen.”

* * *

Logan takes another appreciating bite while he quietly observes Marie. She turns her back to him, and his accurate senses are picking up all sorts of mixed emotions. He’s at a loss for a moment. It’s clear she’s hiding something under her supposedly carefree appearance, but if she really knows all about him, she also should know about his ability to see right through her. 

He ponders why he’s not all that upset by the fact she’s seen his thoughts. In a twisted kind of way he actually likes the idea. Someone else knows what he’s been through and he didn’t even have to say or explain anything. There’s a witness now. Someone who might understand what it’s like to be him. What it’s like to be so goddamn tired of it all. He’s still somewhat puzzled about *her* motives to be on the ledge, though. What confuses him even more is that he wants to give in to the curiosity. 

“What made you go up there?” he asks, and he can hear her nervously rub her gloved hands together. He waits patiently for her to get past the somewhat uncomfortable tension, and when she finally turns around, her eyes seem too old for her age. 

“Guilt,” she almost whispers, dropping her gaze to the tiled floor. “Exhaustion. Loneliness.” There’s an awkward shrug. “Guess I’d reached my limit. Just like you.”

Yes, that’s pretty accurate. Tired of the questions, drained from going around in circles. Exhausted from trying so hard but never actually getting anywhere. He’s been chasing ghosts for years, and there were times he questioned if maybe he is a ghost himself, trapped in time. Everybody else is aging, some of them even died. Why can’t he? He doesn’t even wish for heaven. Hell is just as good. 

He feels slightly uncomfortable as reality sinks in. It’s one thing to hear she has his thoughts, it’s another to actually talk about them. If there exists a topic with the word ‘exit’ written all over it, this is the one. 

He quickly takes a few sips from the glass of milk, puts down his cutlery, and gets up to his feet. “Okay, thanks.” He vaguely gestures to his now empty plate, looking around for the front door already. 

“Don’t go.”

Her short reply is a peculiar mixture of an order and a plea. Something about it fascinates him, and he turns around almost unwillingly.

“Why not?”

She opens her mouth and closes it just the same without producing a single sound. Nervously swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, she tries again. “Because… all your stuff went up in flames and… uh… it’s Christmas Eve. You can’t buy anything tonight.”

Christmas Eve? He’s been out an entire day? That must’ve been one hell of a mutation. 

Still not sure about her intentions, he asks, “What do you mean?”

She sighs tiredly and walks around the counter to hop on one of the stools, folding her hands in her lap. “I was hoping… maybe we can, you know, celebrate. Together. Here.” Her cheeks are reddening and she averts her gaze. 

He finds her embarrassed stammer endearing, and he frowns at the thought, because… endearing? Since when does he find something - or someone - endearing? He’s pretty sure he’s never even used that word. Ever.

Keeping her eyes locked on her fumbling hands, she continues, “I know you didn’t have any plans for the holidays, and God knows I didn’t have either. I’ll make sure my skin stays covered entirely, and I obviously didn’t do groceries, but we’ll have cheap wine and pretzels.” Glancing up with an honest vulnerability he doesn’t quite know how to handle, she asks, “What do you say?” 

Is she serious? Is she actually asking him to celebrate Christmas with her? Why would she do that? She’s seen his thoughts, she knows what he is. Hell, she’s even seen the claws, but instead of an appropriate response, like screaming or fainting, she chose to comfort him. He never had anyone comforting him after popping the blades. He never had anyone comforting him, period. What is he supposed to do now? 

She’s still looking at him. Tilting her head, she shows him a shy smile and tries, “The worst that can happen is waking up with a hangover and food poisoning.” There’s the awkward shrug again and she continues, “We’re suicidal anyway. Let’s live life to the edge.”

He can’t stop the unfamiliar feeling of a smile replacing his earlier scowl. Her dark sense of humor is something he didn’t expect, but it serves its purpose. Not quite sure what to make of this conflicted young woman on the other side of the kitchen, he decides he’s got nothing to lose. 

“Cheap wine and pretzels? Bless mutant healing powers.”


	2. Chapter 2

Logan watches Marie bouncing through her two room apartment. After he decided to stay, a wonderful smile appeared on her face. With a sudden energy she jumped from her stool, clapping her hands with childlike excitement. She shooed him into her living room and said she was going to get the decorations. He’s a bit puzzled how she goes from melancholic to happy in just a couple of seconds, and he also doesn’t understand why she’s trusting him the way she does. The girl’s complicated. That’s for sure. 

So now what, he wonders, somewhat uncomfortable in the middle of her personal space. He has to admit, it’s homely despite the fact her furniture is mostly worn out. She has a big, fluffy couch - hideous orange - situated across from the TV, and a coffee table in between. There are two wooden bookcase’s filled with books, varying from trashy romance novels to literature, poetry and classics, and an enormous arm chair with a faded flower print in front of a fireplace. It doesn’t seem like the hearth has been used in a long time though. He kneels down to get a better look. 

“Chimney’s clogged, I think,” Marie tells him, walking into the room carrying candles, a few strings of lights, and even a mini Christmas-tree. “The smoke’s coming back in.”

“When’s the last time you let someone clean it?”

“Never.”

He looks up from his kneeling position, raising an eyebrow. “How long have you lived here?”

Standing a little wobbly on the armchair to get the lights over the bookshelves, she replies, “Almost four years.”

“Figures,” he mumbles, eyeing the half burned remains of the unseasoned logs she’s used before bending over to look into the shaft. He examines the walls with his hand. The damper doesn’t seem to be locked in the open position, so aside from the wrong wood, it’s no wonder the smoke comes back into the house. He turns the lever and instantly feels the proper draught. “That should do it.”

She’s next to him in the blink of an eye. “Did you fix it?”

“Yeah, think so.”

“Woohoo!” She raises a triumphant fist in the air. “Hot cocoa, hot man, and hot fire place! This is gonna be the best Christmas ever!”

Skipping, she disappears into the hallway again, but before he can respond, she sticks her head through the doorway. 

“Uh, I didn’t mean… well, I wasn’t insinuating anything. Just… you know.” She shows him an embarrassed grimace. “It was a matter of speaking, of course.’

He’s amused by her stammer but keeps a straight face. “It’s okay.”

“Good,” she mutters. “I’ll go and… get the other stuff.”

* * *

Leaning against the wall of the hallway, Marie is trying to overcome her slip of the tongue. She doesn’t want to give him the wrong idea about her invitation, but she also would like to keep all her options open. After all, she *does* find him extremely attractive. There is no doubt about that. 

He’s probably not interested. 

She knows from his memories he uses women for his own need only and doesn’t give anything back, and since she’s not a prostitute, she won’t be satisfied by his money. She also knows it’s got nothing to do with him being selfish - it’s a matter of self-preservation. He doesn’t like to be touched, and she can’t blame him. He’s spend quite some time in captivity where he’s been tortured and abused. He associates physical contact with pain, and in a way, she does too. 

At least she remembers the warmth and hugs her parents gave her before her skin turned out to be lethal. She’s still clinging on to those memories every day, and even though she doesn’t have any real experience with men, she knows she can teach him what it’s like to enjoy the physical closeness of another human being. He might think of her as an untouchable, suicidal loony, but he’s not all that level-headed either. They might actually fit. The him in her head is well-matched too, after all. 

Sighing, she pushes herself away from the wall and walks up to the kitchen to get the wine. She hears Logan fidgeting with the fireplace again, probably to make him feel a little useful, and she’d be extremely pleased if she had a cozy fire tonight, and a handsome man to share it with. 

The more rational part of her is wondering if she knows what’s she’s getting herself into. She’s knows firsthand he’s far from being a boy scout, but wasn’t it his dark side that got her attention in the first place? He knows like no other what it’s like to feel life fading away under his hands. How accusing hollow, glassy eyes can be. Eyes that have no right to blame someone for their emptiness, because it really wasn’t--

Okay. She needs to put a hold on thoughts like these. For the past few weeks she’s been having a thousand similar discussions with herself. So far it has gotten her nowhere. Well, it actually got her up that ledge. 

Snickering because of her own macabre sense of humor, she grabs the food and drinks, and makes her way back to the living room again. Pushing the door open with her shoulder, she starts singing, “Jingle bells, jingle--oh!”

* * *

Logan lunges forward just in time to catch the glasses Marie’s dropping at the surprising sight of the fire. He doesn’t know if her reaction is a good or bad one. 

“You got it going!” she calls out with a delighted smile, and she hurries to put down the bottle and a bag of pretzels. 

A little uncomfortable by her enthusiasm, he grunts, “Yeah. Thought you might like it.” 

It wasn’t *that* big of a deal. 

She crouches down in front of the hearth. “Thank you! I love the warmth and the sight and the smell. The way the flames seem to reach up and passionately want to consume everything within reach. Flames are so greedy. They want it all.”

He never thought of fire like that. He never even questioned the concept of fire, period. Who would think of flames as living things? 

“Anyway,” she turns around, clearing her throat and showing him a somewhat self-conscious smile, “Wine?”

The way she’s on the constant verge of childlike joy and mature restraint fascinates him. He has to admit the odd combination is surprisingly attractive. With her innocent joie de vivre, it’s hard to picture her so desperate she was about to jump off that cliff. He supposes she’s still hiding something crucial. 

“I’ll get it,” he answers, pouring them both a glass of the red liquid before walking around the table to join her on the ground. She’s suddenly a little skittish when his elbow almost touches her arm, and she actually flinches. 

Wondering how trapped she must be within layers of clothes, he eyes the harmless looking creamery skin of her face. In nature, poisonous creatures are wrapped in bright colors and have pins as a warning sign not to touch. Marie’s flawless skin almost begs to be caressed. But he’s not going to. 

The atmosphere is getting a bit too cozy for the likes of him. The lights are dimmed, the fire provides a nice warmth, and the young woman next to him is pretty. All ingredients for a promising night are there, but all he wants to do is to high-tail out of this place. He has some trouble to admit it, even to himself, but this awkward intimacy is scaring him. 

He’s still not sure what to make of her, and he can’t comprehend why he simply can’t seem to get up and leave. His mind is screaming to get going, but his body doesn’t obey. He wants to know her. He wants to understand why she wanted him to stick around. Who in her right mind would ask something that? Especially after she’s seen what he’s really like. It’s a complete mystery to him. *She* is a mystery to him. 

Glancing to his left, he lets his eyes roam over her fully clothed body one more time. “How bad were you injured?”

She blushes. “It wasn’t much.”

Questionably cocking an eyebrow, he pries, “The cliff was deep.”

“Yeah.” She averts her eyes and sips her wine. “But you see… I can fly.”

Now he’s the one who almost drops his glass. “Come again?”

Smiling apolitically, she repeats, “I can fly. I’m also more or less invulnerable, so with your healing, the damage wasn’t much.” 

Now he’s completely dumbstruck. “You wanted to kill yourself by jumping off a ledge while you can *fly*?”

“It’s not any dumber than wanting to drive into an abyss when you heal from just about everything.” 

Touché. But still.

“Besides,” she mumbles between two nervous sips, “I don’t have control yet. I fell, and just before I hit the tree tops it sorta kicked in. It acted like a parachute of sorts. Must’ve been an unconscious reflex.”

Okay, now he’s lost count. How many powers does she have?

She sees his mind doing overtime and sighs. “It’s a long story. Complicated too. I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

“You know everything about me,” he shoots back, annoyed she’s having an advantage and aware he sounds like a sulking kid. 

“True. Just… not yet. Okay? We can talk about it later.”

Her pleading eyes are making it hard to press the matter, so he backpedals a little. “Fine.” 

The sudden quietness is tense, and again Logan hears her sigh. She fills their glasses again, but he can’t help but feel slightly pissed about her reluctance to tell him more about herself. He’s even more pissed for being curious about her. It’s so unlike him. He generally doesn’t care about others. 

“What are you going to do after this?” Marie breaks the silence, and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts. 

He doesn’t have transportation anymore. The clothes he’s wearing are the only ones he’s got left, and his now healed up skin is clearly visible through the large holes in his jeans at the level of his knees. He’s got some money in his wallet, but it’s not enough to get a car or a bike. He earns his money with cage-fights in bars, so he has to make sure he wins the next one. With his strength, his senses, and his healing, it shouldn’t be a problem. If Marie really knows all about him, she should know what he does for a living. He’s not going to be secretive about it. 

“Hitch a ride up north,” he ventures out loud. “Next fight is a week from now. Should be able to make it and get some cash.”

“I have a car.”

His eyes dart to her face again, pinning her with their intensity. “So?”

“You can have it if you want,” she suggests casually. 

“No.” 

“Why not?”

Because he doesn’t want to owe anyone. “Because.”

Turning around, she cautiously puts a gloved hand on his thigh. “No strings attached. It’s a ‘thank you’ gesture.”

He stares at the soft leather on his jeans, marveling how warm it feels. He usually avoids physical contact all together. He only experiences it during a fight, or during a casual, fast fuck. Both are just matters of an insistent urge, and while he usually tries to postpone the ending of a fight so he can blow off some steam, he likes to be done with his other need as quickly as possible. He doesn’t even undress or touch the woman he’s with, other than the required contact between their bodies. He sure as hell never kissed any of them. So why isn’t he drawing away from her?

“No,” he firmly declines her offer again, trying to hold on to his fear of any form of attachment - a survival instinct that has kept him relatively safe all those years. Lonely, but safe. Even though his gut tells him she worth his trust, he’s too lost in all the new emotions she so easily seems to inflict on him. He has to hold on to what he knows.

She withdraws her hand and shrugs to hide her disappointment. “Fine. Suit yourself.”

He didn’t mean to make her feel rejected, and his curiosity about her is almost consuming. He can’t get his head around why he wants to know her better, or why he doesn’t want her to feel bad. He also didn’t want her hand to leave his leg. What the hell is wrong with him? 

“So, what about you?” he asks, internally cursing his weakness. “What’s the next plan?”

She snorts and makes herself comfortable next to him by grabbing two pillows from the couch. “I’m probably gonna go to work again Monday. Don’t have much of a choice.”

Watching her rearranging the cushions, he can’t stop the next question. “What do you do?”

“I’m a dancer,” she answers absently. “In a cage.” She’s down and comfortable on her back, opening the bag of pretzels. Looking up, she smirks. “Seems like we both earn our money behind bars, sugar.”

“A cage?” he asks somewhat dumbly, his attention drawn to her slim figure, stretched out right next to him.

“Yep. In a club. I can’t be a real stripper with my skin, so they try to make me wear as little as possible, put me in a cage above the crowd, and I do my act. It’s safe, it’s easy and… well, I like to dance.”

She tells it with a sad matter-of-factness, and he resists the urge to caress her hair. Instead, he reaches out for the bottle of wine and gets himself another glass. 

He didn’t expect her to work in a strip club. She looks too pure, somehow. Too innocent.

“Bottle’s empty,” he informs her, his mind still chewing over that last piece of information she gave him. 

“Oh, I’ll get another one.”

“I’ll get it,” he stops her by putting his hand on her arm, startling them both. “If that’s okay with you.”

Peering down at his hand for just a moment with wide, surprised eyes, she mumbles, “Sure.” She collects herself soon enough though. “Can you also bring me some ice cream? Spoon’s in the drawer on the left. It’s a little hot in here.” Her carelessly put in words are accompanied by a little tug at her turtle neck sweater.

“You have something underneath?”

“Yeah, always.”

“Then take it off.”

* * *

Blinking, Marie doesn’t really think she heard him right. “Huh?”

“Take it off,” he repeats, standing up. “And take off those gloves too.”

She watches him make his way to her kitchen, but she’s still not exactly sure what’s going on. Take off her sweater? Is he out of his mind? He should know the danger of her skin by now. She doesn’t really think it’s a good idea, but God, how she'd like to get rid of a few layers. It’s getting really warm, and she ponders whether it might be the man or the fire. Either way, she must be flushed horribly crimson by now. 

When he comes back, she’s still fully clothed. He purses his lips and gives her a stern once over, causing her to shiver. She reminds herself he’s not checking her out. He’s checking her *clothes*. 

With an annoyed huff, he hands her the ice cream and cutlery. “I told you to take it off.”

“Yes, but--” 

“No ‘buts.’ Take it off, damnit.”

She really doesn’t understand why he’s so worked up all of a sudden, but what the hell. She’ll be cautious not to come too close, and she knows for sure he won’t lay a hand on her. Except for the one touch he initiated just a few minutes ago. That certainly was unexpected. 

She sits up straight and in one swift motion, the piece of clothing flies over her head. She instantly feels the warmth of the fire on her bare arms. She cherishes the feeling. 

“Good.” He nods once, providing them another drink. “Gloves.”

Suddenly feeling a little mischievous, she grins as she obeys his gruff command. Peeling off the leather with slow, almost lazy casualness, she asks, “Anything else in mind?”

For a moment she thinks there is something close to hunger in his eyes, but it’s gone as soon as she blinks again. 

“Whatever you feel comfortable with, darlin’,” he answers with an arrogant smirk. 

She’s not used to flirting. Not like this. Up close, without the protective distance and bars between her and her ‘clients’, as they name the men in the club. 

“I guess, I’ll leave it at this,” she relents, suddenly feeling quite stupid for trying to be something she’s not. Hastily, she hides her shyness by turning on to her stomach and attacking the ice cream. 

Again, a silence sets in. It lingers longer than before, but neither of them seems to be in a hurry to cut through it. Both are lost in thoughts, enjoying the warmth, the relative peacefulness and the company, even though they’re basically nothing more than accidental acquaintances. 

Licking the last remains of her ice cream from her spoon, Marie’s aware she’s feeling a comfortable buzz. The bleak weather outside is in sharp contrast with the coziness in her living room. She’s had a few glasses of wine, and it makes her feel quite relaxed. 

“Hey, Logan?”

He doesn’t answer, but she knows he’s paying attention by the way he stops turning around the glass he’s holding. 

“I’m ready now.”

The clear puzzlement on his face makes her giggle. Putting away the ice cream carton, she explains, “I promised to tell you about my powers and stuff.”

* * *

Logan watches the girl besides him. She’s slightly drunk, but she’s still level-headed enough to know what she’s doing. He decides to wait out her story, unsuccessfully trying to suppress the urge to check out her exposed cleavage. 

Not in the least aware she’s providing him a clear view of her feminine curves, Marie traces a seam of her cushion with a bare finger. “You still wanna know?”

“Yeah,” he answers before averting his eyes and swiftly downing the entire contents of his glass in one go. 

“Very well.” Crossing her arms over her pillow and resting her head on top of them, she starts almost dreamily, “When I fell, I expected so see my own life flashing before my eyes. Instead, I saw yours.”

His head snaps back to her, an choking panic suddenly rising. Still, his voice sounds calm and controlled when he informs, “What did you see?”

“Lots of things. Flashes, feelings, sounds. Your memories are so intense. It was hard to make out an actual event at first, but later, when I found myself stuck in the tree tops, I was able to see who you are.” She looks up and her eyes lock with his. “Who you *really* are.”

He swallows hard. He doesn’t think he wants to know who - or what - he really is, but this girl is an objective source. She can confirm his own destructive thoughts, but she can also assure him that he’s simply lost in his search for humanity within himself. Something he’s been trying to find for so long. Something he was about to give up on. Something that might not be there to begin with. 

“What am I?” he whispers, knowing damn well he’s absolutely terrified of the answer, whatever it’s going to be, but she shows him the warmest smile he’s ever seen. 

“Not ‘what’ - ‘who’. You’re a man, Logan. You’re a good person. You’ve got issues, but they’re all quite logic to me. I’m so happy we’ve met even though the circumstances were a bit peculiar.”

His heart clenches in his chest and his breath starts to catch in his throat. Much to his horror, he realizes he’s on the verge of bursting into tears by her honest words. He forces his lungs to take a deep gulp of air and stills his shaking hands by sheer will. His face doesn’t give away any of his feelings, but he can’t prevent the eagerness showing in his eyes when they investigate hers.

“Why?”

“You’re like me,” she states simply, her feet casually swaying back and forth in the air. “I know you’re trying to get back what you’ve lost. I know you woke up with no memory of who you are and where you come from after… that awful place. I also know you’ve only found pieces of a broken, stolen and meaningless life so far. Or… that’s what *you* think of it.”

He’s almost devouring her words. Hearing someone else say these things, it makes him realize it all happened. He’s never shared any of his past with anyone. Sometimes he’s wondering if he’s made it all up, but now it’s real.

She sighs sadly, settling her gaze on carpet between them. “My life is taken away by others too. At work I have so many people around me, but no one dares to come close. Those who are close, the ones stuck in my head, they hate me for taking them in. It’s just too much. Too real. Just like you, I’m so tired of fighting.”

“So… you wanted it to end? Just like that?” His voice is soft, almost tender. He doesn’t think he’s ever used that tone before. It sounds unfamiliar, even to his own ears. 

“Yes, just like that. No one will miss me. Don’t you think that’s awful? There is absolutely no one who will report me missing.”

She looks up at him, her big, brown eyes showing her emotions so easily. So honestly. 

“What about your parents? Or your employer?”

“Ha!” She scoffs bitterly. “I’m dead for my parents ever since my mutation hit. They don’t have to look away anymore when they’re say their daughter died in a car-accident.”

She suddenly starts to cry, but he doesn’t really know how to comfort her. Maybe he should rub her back a little, or maybe he should touch her hair, but he dismisses the ideas before his hand can move and just stays quiet, waiting for her to talk again. 

She takes a few deep breaths eventually. “My employer’s probably would’ve been pissed that I didn’t leave him a note up front so he could’ve found someone to replace me. That’s what I am, you know. Replaceable.”

“No,” he responds straight away. “That’s not true.”

Now *her* eyes are eagerly trying to find any truth behind those words. “No?”

“No. You’re…” He struggles to say it right. “You’re… one of a kind,” he finishes lamely, frustrated with himself and his inability to express her thoughts. 

She thinks otherwise, though. A small smile is breaking through. “Really?”

He’s not good at this. Everything inside him is telling him to make a run for it. Now. But her eyes seem to take him in, and again, he simply can’t move. “Yeah.”

* * *

Marie repeats his words in her head before wiping away her tears and leaning back into her pillow again. Coyly looking up, she asks, “So… so you like me then?”

He doesn’t look at her when he grunts, “You’re okay, kid.”

By now he had almost drunk the entire bottle of wine by himself. She knows he’s about to bolt, but she can’t seem to stop this conversation. It’s been years since she’d had a dialogue so personal. She doesn’t want to end, and so she takes a leap of fate. 

“I’ve killed people.”

She’d meant to shock him, but she has to give him credit. He doesn’t even so such much as flinch.

“So did I.”

Crawling a little closer, she confesses, “I know. That’s partially why I like you.”

He looks down, raising an eyebrow. “’Cause I’m a killer?”

She quietly chuckles. “No. Because you’d understand.”

“Understand what?”

“What it’s like. That taking someone’s life doesn’t always mean you’re a bad person deep down inside.”

* * *

Logan’s still processing everything she’s said. He always considered himself exactly that: a bad person, but it’s the second time tonight she’s told him otherwise. 

“How do you know?” he asks. 

She looks at his upper leg for a second or two, and he figures out what she needs. Before he can think about it, he taps his thigh and gestures she can lean on him, fighting the almost unshakable habit to keep everyone at arm’s length. He still doesn’t understand why he’s letting her come this close, both emotionally and physically, but all he knows is that his gut tells him it’s okay. 

“You sure?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper, radiating just as much insecurity as he feels inside. 

“Yeah.”

She shuffles closer, before carefully lowering her head until her cheek comes in contact with his jeans. She softly rubs her skin against the rough fabric, and a little smile replaces her worried features. When she finally rests her head on his left thigh, she murmurs contently, “You’re so warm.”

“So are you,” is all he can answer, staring at the young woman who’s trusting him and seeking comfort in his presence. 

“You know why I know?”

He’s lost track of the conversation again. He can’t seem to concentrate on her words. His hands are itching to run through her dark hair. To feel the texture of those white streaks. He clenches his fists and hides his confusion by playing safe. “Why?”

“Because that’s what you tell me. The you in my head tells me that I’m not a bad person, even though it’s my fault those people are dead. You shield me from them.”

This is probably the weirdest night in his life. He talks to her in her head? And he *shields* her? 

“From who?”

She scoots a little closer, putting her hand on his leg as well, close to his hip. “A co-worker was so high she couldn’t even walk straight anymore. She tripped in our dressing room and touched my bare arm to steady herself. I panicked. Paralyzed on the spot. She simply didn’t think about letting go. I absorbed her entirely. We were alone, and according to the doctors she died of an overdose. I got away with it. ”

Forcing his body not to react to her gentle touch, he grunts, “It was an accident.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, sighing, “But that’s not what she’s saying. The her in my head, I mean. She accused me for taking her life deliberately, and she tried to take over my body. I fight her all the time, but it’s damn exhausting to always be on your guard because something inside of you wants to be in control. You know what it’s like.”

True. Every day he has to fight the battle against his inner beast. It sickens him she knows all about that too.

Marie glances up. “She was a mutant, you know. Quite a powerful one. She could fly, had super strength, and she was virtually invincible. It took me less than four seconds to take her in. I guess she’s still upset about it.”

Everything seems to fall into place now. He did wonder how she got him here. If she has extra strength, she could lift him. It makes sense. 

Looking down, he almost tastes her despair. A few tears are seeping through his jeans, and he does what he’s been denying the both of them all night - he cups the back of her head and caresses her hair. 

“Careful,” she warns, gasping, but he ignores her advice. 

“You said ‘them’. Who else do you got in there besides me and that woman?”

“Her boyfriend.”

His fingers are massaging her scalp, and her answer to his question is a combination of a purr and a moan. His body finds it impossible to ignore it, and he stifles a groan. Having her head in his lap probably wasn’t a good idea after all. 

“What happened?”

Marie angrily spits out the words. “I don’t know, really. She took over and made me take him in so they could still be together in my head. Luckily he wasn’t a mutant, but they’re making my life hell. Calling me names, trying to make me believe I’m evil. They really hate me.”

“It’s not your fault,” he says, and she nods. 

“I know. That’s what the you in my head tells me, too. You keep them away from me.”

He doesn’t really know how to respond to that. He doesn’t have any control over what’s happening in her head. He wonders if that version of him is less complicated than the real him, but he’s afraid to ask. If she only got a fraction of the real him, he’s pretty sure that version is projecting some disturbing thoughts by now, killer skin be damned.

He snaps out of the fantasy because Marie yawns, nuzzles his leg again and puts an arm around his hip. “I’m tired,” she adds needlessly, making him grin despite the fact he’s really starting to get uncomfortable in his tight jeans. “Maybe we should call it a night. Too bad Santa doesn’t know where I live. I’d like to have a nice way out of this life without having to knock on heaven’s door.”

“Maybe I got one.” The words are out before he can regret them.

“How?”

“I have a cabin up north,” he starts hesitantly, scanning her reaction. She doesn’t really move. 

“And?”

“It’s not much, but… we can go there if you want.”

She perks up and he registers pretty much all good emotions on her, but he’s seriously questioning himself. What the hell made him say those words? Is he really thinking about spending time with her up there? It’s isolated. Nothing more than one room. They have to rely on each other completely. Is he out of his fucking mind? 

“Really?” she asks, her chocolate brown eyes searching for doubts. “Are you serious?”

He shrugs uncomfortably. “Yeah. It’s kinda primitive, but, yeah, if you wanna.”

For a moment she doesn’t know how to respond, but then she smiles sadly and carefully rests her head back on his thigh again. “I’d like that.”

Smelling her scent, he’s not really sure what she’s feeling. For a moment she was really happy, but then she was instantly sad again. What happened?

All sorts of doubts are clouding his own mind as well. What if she doesn’t know him after all? What if he’s going to disappoint her? He doesn’t know what expectations he has about him. He doesn’t know how to behave around her. He’s been on his own for so damn long.

“You have to be sure,” he warns her. “You’re gonna be stuck with me for a while.”

Closing her eyes, she murmurs, “No, you’re gonna be stuck with *me*. I’m not very useful. I can’t even cook.”

Now it’s his turn to smile. “Then maybe I can teach you.”

Turning to her back so she can look up at him, she sighs. “I’m serious. You don’t know me, and there is nothing I can repay you with.”

He’s actually offended by her words. “I don’t expect anything from you. I’m not like that.”

“I know,” she answers, sadness clearly visible in her features. “But… I wouldn’t mind, you know. If you wanted… something. I like you. There are ways around my skin and… I wouldn’t mind.”

* * *

Hot flames of embarrassment seem to consume her, and it doesn’t help that Logan is just blankly staring back at her. Scrambling up to a sitting position, she's humiliated to the bone for throwing herself at him like that. “Or maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all.”

“Wait.” He wants to grab her arm, but realizes on time she doesn’t have long sleeves. 

She stiffens anyway, closing her eyes and bracing herself for the inevitable speech about how it’s got nothing to do with her or her skin. Knowing she can’t take it, she begs, “Let’s forget I said that. It must be the wine. Or something.”

“Look at me.”

His calm voice makes her turns around. They’re staring in each others eyes for quite a while before Logan explains, “I’m not expecting anything. I want you to know that. If something’s is going to happen, it’s because we both want to. Not because you feel obligated. You understand?”

She does. She does perfectly well, but her voice doesn’t cooperate, so she settles for some quick nodding. 

“Good.” He takes a deep breath and seems to think about what he’s going to say next. “I can’t promise it’ll work out okay. If you really know me, you should know I’m too fucked up to be good company. I don’t have any answers. All I can offer you is a place where you can take your time to figure out what you wanna do with your life. I’ll take care of you up there. No expectations.” 

He’s looking at her. Maybe he’s trying to figure out if she really understands his offer. 

“Okay,” she whispers, not really sure if that’s that he wants to hear, but it seems safe enough. 

“You still wanna go?” he asks, and again, all she can do is nod and look into his beautiful, serious, hazel eyes.

* * *

“Okay,” he closes their agreement, and somehow a wave of relief washes over him. “How about we leave tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s good. Tomorrow’s excellent.” She looks on her watch and grins. “Actually, tomorrow is today, so… Merry Christmas.”

Her smile seems to lift up his heart, and he can only return it, suddenly sure this is going to be okay. It feels right, somehow. They are compatible, just like she’s said. Not only in her head, but in real life, too. Accidental compatibility. It’s the best Christmas gift ever. 

“Merry Christmas, kid.”


End file.
